


Angel Lover

by batmanisabanana



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Bottom Louis, Cheating, F/M, Immorality, Inspired by Nabokov's Lolita, Jealousy, M/M, Obsession, Possessive Harry, Seduction, Top Harry, Underage - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-30
Updated: 2019-01-30
Packaged: 2019-10-19 08:54:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17598173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/batmanisabanana/pseuds/batmanisabanana
Summary: A tale of obsession and madness as Harry Styles' doomed passion over his step-son devours them both.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> heavily heavily inspired by vladimir nabokov's lolita. i'm sure everyone has heard of it. i have mixed feeling for that book; the writing is phenomenal but my morality gets to me. ofc do not strive for a relationship like that, or this. i will try to not completely romanticised the story.
> 
> harry's wife is louis' mother but he isn't harry's biological son. is that incest? probably is. a little bit most likely.

**_HARRY_** loved his little angel lover.

Louis— who's lips are stained red from cherry lollipops, who's cheeks are dotted with faint faded freckles. He liked to bake his skin as he lay on the grass, the sun cascading over the slopes of his sharp shoulders. His skin is a smooth milky white; pale even in his attempts to tan. Instead the beam of the sun would leave him in this pretty rose colour, flushed all over from the flesh on his neck to the balls of his feet.

He is a beauty, Harry's own slice of heaven— that could very well lead him to hell.

At 7AM, he is known simply as _Tomlinson_. Slipping on his uniform as he heads to school. To his teachers, he's known only as Tomlinson, obediently tromping from class to class. When he's called on to answer questions he doesn't know the answer to, _Tomlinson_. With his flesh coloured lips and his nice black dress shoes, studious with his textbooks beneath the crook of his arm.

And then, when he meets up with his friends after class, he becomes _Tommo_. Heading straight to the local playground and competing with his friends on the swings, swaying higher and higher into the air, eyes closed and the wind on his face, thinking about flying. Riding bikes and drinking milkshakes, flirting with boys his age. _This is him in his natural habitat_ , just a boy of fifteen, laughing with his peers, loose collared shirt and all.

When he's out with older friends, cutting classes with the cool kids, he's called _Lou_. Wearing red pigment on his lips, sharing stolen cigarettes with each other as they hung out beneath the bleachers. They talked about boys and movie stars, about which shirt goes with which skirt. They'd go to parties together, corrupted youth written all over the remnants of their skin.

But to Harry, he is always _Louis_. His soft boy, the boy who asks him for money to buy candies with. Louis, who would plead for a trip to the mall, pouty lips looking kissable. Louis who didn't like the taste of strawberries, but during breakfast he'd look to Harry as he bit into the fruit, its juices dripping from his sinful lips and stirring rabid thoughts to form from the darkest parts of Harry's brain.

Louis who is sweet as he asks Harry to put on his socks for him, the ones with lace trimmings around the band. He'd giggle when Harry would kiss his knees, preening under the lustful attention of the older man.

Louis would steal his jewellery from him, wearing his rings around his thumbs. Laughing when Harry would chase him. Revelling in delight as he'd let the man catch him in the trap that was his arms.

Harry liked to brush his nimble fingers on Louis' glossy chestnut fringe, feeling the smoothness of his hair. No knots or strays, just _silk_ all over. Louis is a brat when he doesn't get his way, stomping his foot as he locks himself in his room. Harry, _the fool that he is,_ knocks not even an hour later, telling him about the way his mind has changed.

 _Louis_ is all trouble and all beauty. Harry knew that this boy will lead him into a downwards spiral towards _nothing_ at all. Complete voidness of mind. A shattered life. It is a scary thought, but he chooses to ignore it. It is all so wrong, but he doesn't care. This _obsession_ he has over him will destroy them both, he is sure of that.

Yet Harry knows, even in his darkest heart, that he will never hurt Louis. All he's ever wanted to do is _touch_ him— show him his love, how he feels it: like a song, sweet and soft, always in his head, marked with long, sweeping strokes of deep desire and short, passionate notes of lust.

He can't say when, or why, but this beautiful boy has managed to lasso his heart, in many ways, from the day he met him. He remembers his first word, too, and it slayed him utterly.


	2. Chapter 2

[ **1962** ]

 ** _HE_** didn't look anything like his mother.

Charlotte had brown eyes, a warm cinnamon colour. She has blonde hair, curled perfectly on the ends, girlish lips. His darling wife was a middle aged woman who wore colourful skirts with plain white button-ups. She is beautiful in a way that is not striking nor unearthing, rather muted, mostly plain. But her eyes were kind, yet her voice was not. She liked to reprimand him, her only son, with a screech in her tone. And then she'd smile at him, her husband, trying her best to charm.

It wasn't at all charming, her smile. It was strange, a bit disturbing. It didn't reach her eyes and her cheeks would twitch. But Harry still kisses that smile off her lips. Playing the role of a loving husband.

 _Husband_. A title he didn't think he'd ever own. It was supposed to be satisfactory, but all it did was fill him with dread. He married her because he had to. _He was running out of time_ , they said. _Go find yourself a nice woman to settle down with_. God, and wasn't she just a diamond. Such a catch. At first she had been this well-mannered, funny woman. But two months past and she became this crazy, controlling, freak of a thing. Yet he still got down on one knee and proposed.

This is the first time he met him. Newly wedded with a ring on his finger that felt more like a bear trap than it is a promise. And _him_ , fresh out of summer camp with a bag slung over one shoulder.

She didn't hold a candle to him. This, this boy- no, this _beautiful, lethal little devil_... this is who he wants. He's the owner of silky brunette hair, and pale, flawless skin, like fresh milk; tiny, long fingered hands, knobby knees, slender ankles that end in coy feet; big, baby blue bambi eyes; a mouth of lightest pink; a long, thin neck; a flat, smooth chest, tapering to a lithe waist, bony hips; petite height, and his buttocks, soft and smooth and perfectly round.

He wants him.

And he wants him soon. He is cursed, Harry knows. That slight movement as he tosses his hair; the shy bat of long lashes; the devil's fey charm flowing in the boy's rosy cheeks; it is going to kill him, but he can't embrace it. If he embraces his death wish, he'll never see this beautiful boy again. Either way, he can't afford to take the chance to his hellish grave. This realization, _this epiphany_ that branded his chest, broke his knees; as he realizes that this boy will lead him to the end of _everything_.

Yet he still found reason to smile, anyway. Tries to shake off the spell he's bound in by this boy whose now branded as his step-son. So he smiled his most charming smile when Charlotte introduced Harry to him, but the boy had snarled. And because of this reaction Charlotte spouts poison at him; hissing through her teeth to behave. And the boy deflates, slumped shoulders and all.

"This is Louis," she said.

 _Louis_. A french name. As he repeated it, the name clings onto the tip of his tongue and eases smoothly through his palate. It repeats itself over and over again in his head.

"Hello," Louis said, eyes trained on his feet. Voice as pixie-like as his looks. "Am I 'sposed to call you my 'da, now?"

He's all sweet shyness now. The hostility he showed a second ago, gone. "You don't have to call me anything you don't want to, sweetheart." Harry smiled at him. "Can _I_ call you sweetheart?"

The blood that rushes to the boy's pale cheeks makes him shiver. A bloom in the blue of his eyes, like interest, like curiosity. "I— yes. _Daddy_."

 _Oh, God._ There is a heat that forms in Harry's stomach as he said that. _Dad-ee_. So innocent in his obliviousness, as he stood there rocking on his feet, lithe, delicate fingers twiddling around each other, unknowing about the way he's trapped Harry into his being completely with _that_ word, with his eyes, with the way his shorts has rode up to the inner most part of his thighs.

" _Tomlinson_." His wife hissed at him, at _his_ boy. "Do not make the man uncomfortable with your childish antics."

Harry glared at her. Squaring up to protect this beautiful boy, this sweet little _princess_ , from the _dragon_ that was his mother. "Do not talk to him like that, Charlotte. He is a but a boy. I will not condone any type of abuse hailed at him." Harry gestured to him, "now _apologise_."

She stood there, shell-shocked. Mouth agape with an unfathomable expression on her face. But, being the obedient wife that she was, granted him his request as she coughed and whispered dejectedly, "I'm sorry, baby, Louis.. I just have a bit... of a headache is all."

Louis, who watched the entire exchange with wide, fearful eyes could only nod his head in surprise. He turned to look at Harry when his mother had excused herself and trotted up the stairs without another word.

"So.." Harry smirked at him, inching closer to Louis, who will soon be his _beloved_. His baby boy. His _everything_. "May I carry your bags upstairs, _Louis_?"

 _God_ , that name. Never has a name fitted a person more perfectly than it does this moment. Such a soft, delicate name for a boy who is _pure youth_.

The pair ascend the stairs silently. No small talks or awkward exchanges, just the sound of their footsteps as they walked through the lonely house. Harry nudges a door at the end of the hall; it opens without a sound, revealing a room painted yellow, with pale pastel colours staining the bed, dripping down in the curtains, splattered on the carpet. Louis is all over the room; polaroids on the walls, magazines on a shelf. Stuffed animals circling the bed.

"This is my room. Would you _puh-lease_ put my bags by the corner? I wanna nap." The boy, in perfect timing, yawns and stretches. Running to his bed and sighing as he spreads his arms throughout the mattress, _looking like an angel_.

And Harry does not respond. Not right away, at least. In awe of such a beautiful, little creature. Such a sweet sin, the prettiest boy in the land. So he laughs softly, does as he says and arranges the boy's bags by the side of the door and stops by the foot of his bed.

Louis peaks one eye up at him; such a startling blue, and his face has painted, youthful features, and his lashes are long and elegant. His smile is bright and wide like the sun, as he giggles at Harry looking at him without a word spoken.

"Wanna sleep _now_ , 'da.." he whispers softly, lips curved with shy excitement. "Gimme a hug and tell me goodnight..."

Harry nearly falls into himself with joy, excitement electrocuting his veins. He moves towards the boy and gathers him up in his arms, revelling on the press of their bodies so tightly wounded against each other's. He pulls away and ruffles Louis' hair as he stood, and the boy bashfully leans up to his hand, in that small, fleeting moment.

"Goodnight, Louis..."

 


	3. Chapter 3

**_ALL_** at once Harry developed a type of tenderness for him that only a lover can bestow. It possessed him - - in his very soul and out his rampant flesh; this shameless, clumsy, maddening, agonising and hopeless obsession.

And although their pages are still blank; the mere thought of words being written in invisible ink, and that someday (oh, and how that day is so _close_ to coming) it might appear, that it will transform into this lucid, tangible, _miraculous_ masterpiece; is enough for Harry to clamour onto his hands this ideal aspiration that only a madman or an artist can ever truly evoke.

But time chooses to be so _cruel_. The days dredged on and on and the nights grow longer still; and in the velvet twilight of dawn; as he lay in his bed with his sleeping wife - - sweat breaks and gathers on his forehead as not even a few walks away from him carries the door to his deepest, darkest desires.

And on late mornings and early afternoons where the skies are coloured with oceans of honey; where the young and pubescent are dressed in uniforms and their house is filled with a desolate silence; Harry fills this void of unsettling calm with the staccato noise of his typewriter as he slams the words; _Louis, Louis, Louis, Louis, Louis_. Repeat it until the page is full. Print. And then repeat it again.

But after 3PM is a kindness. After 3PM is when Louis hangs about the backyard with the yawning sun bathing his skin in this soft majestic glow whilst he lay on the grass reading his starlet magazines and Harry sits on the the patio quietly admiring this effervescent being.

It occurred to him that Louis liked getting wet. The sprinklers do not do anything to hinder him as it showers him in a stream of cold water and causes his gossamer clothes to cling onto every delicate curve on his body.

 _His precious boy_. With a body made of sin and his face as pretty as an angel. His flesh and bone made to be traced with curious fingertips. Blue, blue eyes that are meant to drown a man in an endless pool of humiliating despair.

"Darling," a voice breaks through his thoughts just as a manicured hand touches his shoulder. "I've made us chicken for dinner, and a salad as you requested."

Harry smiles at her tensely and nods. "I'm just finishing up this chapter, Charlotte."

"Oh! May I see?" She sits on his lap like it's _her_ place; like his legs are her own ottoman. But Harry is only willing to be reduced into a personified piece of furniture when he is to be of use to accommodate the comfort of a blue-eyed vixen known only as Louis.

Harry rolls his eyes as she snatches his notebook from his hands. "Oh my big strong man is so smart as well!" She shrills into his ear in a delighted, condescending manner before placing kisses all over his face with her coloured lips.

Harry fakes a laugh and grabs her wrists, takes back his property and returns a quick kiss on her cheek. "Sweetheart, I'm actually getting a little hungry - - will you please check on the food?"

And if only his hunger can be satisfied with food. If only a few minuets of chewing is enough to fill the emptiness in the pit of his stomach and restrain him from wanting _more_ , from wanting _flesh_ and _sin_ and carnal need.

His wife is eager to please him as she stands and nods over enthusiastically. "Lou - - LOUIS!"

But his sweet boy is not at all sweet when he is disturbed from his peaceful reading. He groans brattishly and buries his head on the magazine. Legs drumming about before he rolls around the wet ground making him all sticky with grass and dirt.

Harry hides a smirk at Louis' reaction, and tries not to strangle Charlotte with her's. All the sugar in her voice gone as she yells at Louis to; "GET UP FROM THERE! You know I hate it when you come inside my house and dirty the floor! CHANGE YOUR CLOTHES QUICKLY - - no, NO WAITS! I will not wait for you! I am your mother! CHANGE NOW AND HELP ME SET UP THE TABLE!"

Charlotte drags her heeled feet back into the house with a whisper of " _this goddamn child_ " under her breath. A gesture of irritation with her hands as she moves to enter inside the house once again.

And Louis is in front of him now. Drenched from head to toe; a smile on his pink lips and a gleam in his blue eyes. The earth clinging onto his ivory skin and his clothes now almost sheer from its dampness. The sun still lingering on his rosy cheeks creating patches of splotch against the otherwise smooth surface and him playfully bouncing on the balls of his feet.

"Daddy?" He said it with all the allure of a nymphet. Batting his eyelids at him coquettishly.

For a second Harry could only stare as the string-straps of his loose fitted satin tank top slips from its collarbone perch and slides down his skin like the fingers of the devil himself.

But since there is little else to do except to speak after spoken to; Harry stood and towers over the boy; wearing a smile as he takes Louis' face into his hands. Brushes his feline cheekbones with his thumbs and pinches the apples of his cheeks lightly. "Yes, my Louis?"

Louis brings his hands out from behind him and then shoves a crumpled piece of paper in his chest, giggling all the while. "I want - - I _need_ you to buy this for me, oh please oh please oh please!"

Harry raises a brow and declutters the paper carefully, mildly wet from being crushed in a wet boy's hand. "Mommy won't ever spend her money on me! And it's unfair because everyone -including Natasha- have those boots but _I_ don't!"

"Oh? And you want to be just like everyone else?" Harry sits back down and cocks his head to the side. Folding the paper in a square and putting it inside his pocket.

"Yes! Duh!" Louis stomps his foot once. "Please! I'll do anything!"

"Anything?"

"Yes!"

Harry smiles at him slyly. Squints his eyes and hums, rubbing his chin with his fingers. "Alright then - - how about you go and do what your mother asked-"

"Commanded."

"- _commanded_ you to do and I'll think about it?"

Louis yelps and throws himself into the man's arms. Giggling happily as he rubs his face on the crook of Harry's neck. Harry spans the small of his back with his hand. His pinky shyly touching the band of Louis' salmon coloured shorts.

And even as Louis' wet clothes clings onto Harry's dry ones, Harry does not let go. Basking in the coldness of his skin and the sweet smell of summertime in his hair.


	4. Chapter 4

**_THE_** brightness pours across his skin, bouncing down the panes of his neck in gradient circles. The wind rushes, slicing through brunette hair, dancing against gravity like feathers. His eyes are bluer, every speck of yellow brought forth from the warm sheen of the sun.

Like this, with his body possessed by light, Harry's want for him grows like the daisies sprouting out from beneath the earth. The gleam of his lips like a wet rose, his youthful features crisp and yawning, not a single line on his pale, freckled face.

Madness eludes him. A desperate kind of yearning ravishes his bones. Even when he looks away, his face still lingers in his mind like an accidental gaze to the sun.

He's wearing these boots that makes his feet look almost disproportionate with his slight body, bulky and laced with the color of sand. Boots that he pouted and begged for days ago, announcing how he wanted to be just like everyone else.

 _But he will never be like them_ , dress like them as he wishes; he will always be _Louis_ , who is Harry's special boy, a divinity against the vast obscureness of men.

Sunday's have become his favorite days. Louis refuses to go with his mother to church, and Charlotte does not bother Harry in to accompanying her so, leaving the both of them alone in the house for a finite number of hours.

Even inside the house; Louis does not unlace his boots. Propping them up the table as he grabs the remote from Harry's hand nonchalantly. It's been like this since Harry had bought him these shoes. At first it was shocking; Louis whose soles were pink and bare all the time, now sounding at the steps with a cacophony of loud _thud, thud, thuds_.

Then it became annoying. The thudding growing tedious in his ears. Charlotte screeching at her son more so now then she did before adding to the nuisance.

It wasn't until he realized that Louis preferred wearing these soft, flowy cotton shorts that Harry decided that he, in actuality, _adored_ them. His tiny, sparrow body made more apparent by the uncovered flesh of his thighs, the structure of his hips more open for the eyes.

And now, as Louis' legs are bared and on display, one stretched comfortably the other bent inwardly, Harry found his attention divulging from the screen of the television to the smooth, unscathed surface of his _sin_.

Harry wanted to reach out and touch; claim every slab of flesh and leave behind marks of his own, of the indents of his teeth and the redness that his palm can construct. Finger-shaped bruises across the span of his waists, the flexing of his arm.

"Go get me a lolli, 'da." Louis said, making Harry snap his head up to fix his gaze on the boy's pretty face. "Please!"

 _Such a temptress_. With his lashes fanning out and his lids closing slowly only to open once again; showcase those sparkling blue eyes as big as a doe's. Harry sighs, feigning annoyance, and stands to retrieve Louis' favorite cherry lollipop from the counter of their kitchen. When he comes back to the couch, Louis now has his legs folded into each other, crossing.

"Shouldn't sit like that with those boots on." Harry said, unwrapping the candy before putting it on the boy's sealed lips, tapping the plush softness of his mouth with it. Grinning in delight when it parts to let in the lollipop. "You're welcome."

"Thank you!" Louis said, sounding almost muffled. "And I'm okay, daddy."

"Suit yourself, doll face." Harry smiled, ruffling Louis' hair as he said so.

"I really do love them, daddy..." Louis said, looking up at him with this smile, looking pretty and frail as a baby dove. "M' glad you bought them for me. These boots, I mean."

The way his neck is craned Harry can almost fool himself into thinking he's asking for a kiss. "I like seeing you happy, baby. You know this." He leant down, a bit. But then Louis' eyes darts away suddenly like a startled deer, the tips of his ears tinting a heated pink. Harry grins, like a snake strangled in lily, and diverts his gaze back to the screen. "What're we watching?"

"Snagglepuss." And his voice is strained, a bit. Maybe because of the candy in his mouth or something else, Harry cannot yet tell.

"Snagglepuss." Harry deadpanned. "A very snazzy pussycat."

Silence. But then Louis bursts into a fit of giggles, his shoulders shaking with it, taking the pop off his mouth. "'Da!" he exclaimed, "You're so silly."

"What? He's wearing a bowtie. He _is_ a classy pussycat." Harry retorts, and he watches as Louis doubles over in laughter, his own stomach dropping at the sight of him. How transparent he is, he thinks, when his eyes cannot avert from the sight of his step-son so happy and elated. How visible is his desire, when he chooses to become a slave to the invisible ghost of sensation?

But sensation is just that. A ghost; nothing more. He has always felt as if something was missing inside him. In his lungs, his body, there is life all around; however indifferent, it is alive. But inside his chest there is some foreboding fissure, some ravenous ravine that, if he dared or cared to cave, would undeniably bring about his end, personally tailored. That warmth turned heat turned fire turned flare kindled, the moment he met this blue-eyed nymphet.

"Stop saying that word!" Louis said. "You make it sound almost vulgar, 'da!"

A beat. The crackle of television, music of cartoons, then Louis' giggles, slowly dwindling like the last droplets of honeyed wine.

"You're a very beautiful boy, Louis. Do you know that?" His tongue runs this dialogue before he can even attempt to stop it, his words hanging about the air like it's the only sound around them.

"Uhm." Louis said. And his pale face is pink all over, but his knuckles are white, clenched into fists.

"You're really, really pretty." Harry persists. And before he can even make a move with his hand, a gesture, a comforting nudge, the front door is already creaking, and Charlotte's voice fills in the quiet of the void, his head snapping up at the sound of it.

"Darling? I've got groceries, help me please!" She yelled.

And when he lolls his head back to look at his boy once again, Louis' gone, and the beat of his footsteps are all he can manifest, the thudding of his feet going up to the stairs and the slam of his bedroom door cackling through his bones like the cold gusts of winter wind.


End file.
